


In Each Place and Forever

by ineachplace



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dark Magic, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski Feels, M/M, Magical Realism, Mentions of Major Character Death, Multi, POV Derek Hale, Soulmate AU, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-08-29 12:39:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8489986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineachplace/pseuds/ineachplace
Summary: “We’re soulmates. A warlock cursed us and took away your memories four centuries ago. I’ve been looking for you ever since.”“You’ve been alive for four hundred years? I was born in 1990!”Stiles huffs out an impatient breath, shaking his head frantically, “God, you’re always so dense,” he practically yells, “You died. We die. We keep dying and coming back, born to different names and families. Except I remember everything and you—you don’t.”





	1. The Finding

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys all enjoy! Will be updating weekly. Ideally, every Sunday. Keep an eye out!

 

  

_Here when I say "I never want to be without you,"_

_somewhere else I am saying_

_"I never want to be without you again." And when I touch you_

_in each of the places we meet_

_in all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dying_

_and resurrected._

_When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life,_

_in each place and forever._

_— **Bob Hicok, "Other Lives and Dimensions and Finally a Love Poem**_

 

 

* * *

 

 

            There’s no logical reason for Derek to still be in Beacon Hills. Not after Kate, after Laura and Cora and Mom and Dad and Peter. The woods by his house still smell like fire, and the leaves still cling to the scent like they’re greedy for it.

            He saw the smoke from the train station. Their house was in the middle of the reservation, and the only one around for miles, so he knew it was his; the thick black clouds rising from the trees like hell itself had opened up, which, it kind of did. What he still remembers most—what he suspects he’ll always remember more than anything else—is Laura’s hand reaching out from the barred basement windows. He heard the screaming, saw the furious orange flames pouring out of every single window, and then he saw it. A white hand above the grass on the left side of the house, digging into the soft dirt, trying to claw it’s way out.

            Derek thought it was a mirage until he heard her voice, heard her begging for someone, anyone to help. He pulled at the bars, scalding hot from the fire, until his hands were burned and bleeding, until his vision was blurred and damaged from the thick smoke. By the time the fire trucks and police got there, Laura’s hand had gone still, and Derek knew without even looking that she, and everyone else, was gone.

            The whole town makes Derek feel like he’s choking, now. Sleeping in that burned out shell of a house for years has made him cold, stretched out the mourning process and made it impossible to move forward, to do anything except become a living monument, a living memorial for everything he lost. No one could know what it was like, what it felt like leaving your sisters and parents buried in the smoking ground; being the only one left to live with the sounds, the smells of your entire family burning.

            Still, something tethered Derek to this place, kept him wandering the outskirts of the California town like a wolf with no pack. Kids whispered. Kids came looking for the Hale house, came looking for the boy who lived. Beacon Hills’ very own Harry Potter, except his story had no magic, no escape, no flying cars or licorice frogs. Just fire.

            “Coffee. Black,” Derek mutters to the barista at the only Starbucks within a 10 mile radius. They had built it after the entire town petitioned for it. Sent in letters and emails and even made a video begging for one. It’s not like they had any shortage of wooded land to tear down and build over.

            The barista visibly shudders, fear as obvious as it always is when Derek walks into a room. He quickly fills his cup and slaps a lid on it, careful not to touch Derek’s hand when he slides him a five.

            “I heard he killed his entire family,” the kid whispers to the next customer on line.

            Nothing he hasn’t heard before. Still, he knocks over a cup of straws before heading out, feeling eyes following him the whole time.

            It’s rainy like it always is, considering the town is perched on the highest point of a hill that stretches for hundreds of miles. Rain stuck to the bones of Beacon Hills like muscle, making everything smell like wet leaves. Truthfully, Derek didn’t mind it that much. The rain was soothing. He and Laura used to run around in it forever, coming inside and whipping their wet jackets at Cora while her nose was buried unsuspectingly in a book. He thinks about the way Cora used to wrinkle her nose before she’d chase them, face full of playful anger as she’d tackle one of them to the ground.

            He takes the long way home, sipping his coffee and tipping his head to the sky to feel the light drops of rain hit his face. They roll off of his leather jacket, dripping onto the ground to join the puddles. He’s about 200 feet away from his house when he sees a figure walking towards the back entrance of the charred black structure. Derek freezes, stance going rigid as he assesses the stranger.

            He’s pacing back and forth on the dilapidated porch. There’s a map and what looks like a newspaper in his hand, and he’s staring at it with such intensity that Derek wonders if he’s lost, or worse, trying to sell him something. He’s small. Not young, but thin and wiry, with hair spiked up haphazardly on the front of his head like he’s been pulling at it. Derek moves closer, seeing a beat up pair of converse on his feet and old, tattered jeans snug on his hips. He's wearing a jacket over a sweatshirt, which Derek finds odd, given that it isn't that cold, and he's got the strings of the hoodie in his mouth.

            Something about him feels familiar, but Derek can’t figure out what. Maybe it's the way his hands are moving, the way his mouth is set in a hard, determined line while worrying the white fabric of the strings.

            “This is private property,” Derek says loudly, earning a startled jump from the kid. He expects him to run, to yell and scream or maybe attack him because that’s what usually happens. People come to the Hale house like it’s the most haunted Halloween attraction in California.

            Instead of running away, though, he runs toward Derek, arms flailing like he’s going to hug him. Which he does. He crashes into Derek, wild arms wrapping all around him, and he’s laughing.

            “Wh-?” Derek mutters, trying to break free of the hug but this kid is unexpectedly strong. He tries a few more times before finally wriggling loose to stare at him.

            “Do you remember me,” the kid yells, barely contained hysteria in his voice. The newspaper and map are laying forgotten on the ground, and Derek sees now that the paper is the one about his family’s house fire. The front page is his burning home, still chilling even in black and white. Beside it is Derek’s high school picture, caption explaining how he was the only survivor.

            “Am I supposed to?”

            The kid’s entire demeanor changes, his shoulders slumping, mouth falling into a frown. There’s a sadness centuries deep on his face, now, and Derek, for some inexplicable reason, wants to apologize.

            “Right. Right, right,” he mumbles, wiping his long, surprisingly elegant hand over his face until his expression is one of carefully controlled neutrality. Derek takes the opportunity to really look at him. He has long lashes, the shadow of them feathering his cheeks. He has a pointed nose, turned up lightly at the edge like an elf or some other whimsical thing. His eyes are honey brown, suddenly darker in the gray twilight. He’s spectacular, Derek realizes, ignoring the very strange urge to reach out and touch his face. He has moles spread all over the left side of his face, like God or whoever used splatter paint. Little brown stepping stones leading all the way down his neck and disappearing under his hoodie.

            “What do you want? Who are you?” Derek asks, guarded. He’s more than a little uneasy.

            “I came here looking for you. You’re Derek Hale, right?”

            The kid’s hands are tapping frantically on his thighs, almost like he’s trying not to reach out and hug him again. Derek nods once.

            “If you’re here for the story, you’re about 4 years too late. I was acquitted, they found who did it, I lived happily ever after.”

            “No. I’m not here about that. I know what happened and I know you had nothing to do with it. I’m—you’re sure you don’t remember me? Not even a little?”

            He steps closer, eyes darting back and forth, roving over Derek’s entire face. Derek shakes his head, losing his resolve a little.

            “God _damn it,_ ” he roars, turning away from Derek to pace, running one hand through his hair.

            “Why do you have that?” Derek points to the newspaper on the ground, staring too long at the picture of the house until he can smell it again.

            “It’s a long story. I’ve been looking for you for a long time,” he mutters, following Derek as he walks onto his porch. “My name is Stiles. Well, it’s Stiles this time. “

            “What the fuck does _that_ mean?” Derek asks, suddenly terrified. He grabs Stiles by the front of his shirt, pressing him into the door.

            “Do you want the long or the short version,” he breathes, tongue darting out to lick his lips.

            “Short first,” Derek says, readjusting his grip on the kid’s shirt.

            Stiles steels himself, setting his shoulders and biting down hard on his jaw a few times before opening his mouth. “We’re soulmates,” he says slowly, expression pinning Derek exactly where he is, “A warlock cursed us and took away your memories four centuries ago, and I’ve been looking for you ever since.”

            “You’ve been alive for four hundred years? I was born in 1990!”

            Stiles huffs out an impatient breath, shaking his head frantically, “God, you’re always so _dense,”_ he practically yells, “You _died_. We die. We keep dying and coming back, born to different names and families. Except I remember everything and you—you don’t.”

            His first instinct is to punch Stiles in the face and run as fast and far away as he can. He’s so close to doing it, can feel the familiar itch in the knuckles of his right hand, still bunched in Stiles’ shirt. Once he swallows that, though, he takes a deep breath and looks at the kid, who is breathing so fast that Derek thinks he can see the bump of his heartbeat through his sweatshirt.

              That…sounds kind of horrible. If any of this is true, and Stiles isn’t just some raving lunatic with strange conspiracy theories, then he’s glad to be the one without the memories.

            “You know what you sound like, right?” He asks, calmly, trying to brush it off. Instead of responding, Stiles rears up on his tippy toes and kisses Derek. It’s sloppy, angle all wrong, but Derek is frozen in place, glued to the floor as the force of it makes him momentarily lose his footing. Stiles doesn’t move his lips or try to turn it dirty, he just holds his mouth there for a second, like he’s trying to prove a point, pulling away with a barely suppressed whine, lips shiny and wet.

            “Sorry. Sorry, I just…you felt something, right? They told me that physical contact could help rouse the memories, or at least the shadow of them.”

            “I…” Derek is at a loss for words. The surprise of the action made his brain short circuit, and he can’t remember anything except liking the way it felt and, shockingly enough, wanting to do it again. “It didn’t work.”

            “The memories are getting weaker,” Stiles whispers, suddenly looking like he’s going to vomit. His face is ghostly white.

            “This sounds fucking nuts,” Derek breathes, still in utter disbelief that he’s even entertaining this instead of kicking the kid out and hibernating for a week straight.

            “We have to go. You, you have to come with me right now. He’ll be here soon, if the memories are fading then that means he’s coming for us,” Stiles is pulling Derek through the back door and into the house, stopping for a second and looking around the rooms before picking up discarded clothes and a few pairs of Derek’s shoes.

            “You coming,” Stiles asks, freezing mid crouch over a pair of Derek’s sweatpants. When Derek doesn’t respond, he gets up, taking a few short strides before he’s right back in his face. “I know this sounds crazy. I know I’m a stranger to you, but, but you’re not a stranger to me. You have to trust me. Can you do that? I promise to give you answers, to tell you everything, just please. Please come with me right now. This might be our last chance.”

            Stiles is almost crying. There’s a wall of misty tears clouding his eyes, and his beautiful mouth is quivering.

            Derek tears his gaze away from Stiles to look around the house, at the stairway covered in leaves and rot from the open hole in the roof. He stares at the sleeping bag on the floor, listens to the cold, wet drip of the rain falling into a tin bucket by the radiator. This... isn’t home anymore. Not an ounce of life is left in this carcass. His family is gone, resting in the ground out front by the tree that didn’t die when everything else did. He takes a deep breath, letting it fill him up before pushing it back out, slowly.

            “Okay,” Derek says, “okay.”

 

 

            They take Derek’s car. After packing up what few things he had and loading it into the tiny trunk of the Camaro, they’re pulling onto the main highway that cuts through Beacon Hills. Stiles is strangely quiet in the passenger’s seat. His face is pressed against the cool glass of the window, wild body still, and Derek would think he was asleep if it weren’t for the reflection of the streetlights in his eyes. There’s an odd energy in the car, now, once Derek accepts the fact that he’s left everything familiar for a complete stranger claiming to be his soulmate.

            “I don’t know where I’m going,” Derek says quietly, keeping his voice low enough so that it doesn’t startle Stiles.

            “Pull onto I-80 and keep going straight. I have a place,” he says, and he’s sad again. Derek can feel it almost more than he can see it. His hand itches, lifting off of the steering wheel to hover in the space between them, wanting to touch. Stiles doesn’t move, just keeps his eyes fixed on the blur of trees passing by.

            “You were really living there,” Stiles asks what must be at least an hour later. Derek is broken out of his reverie, feeling the full weight of Stiles’ stare on him now.

            “Yeah.”

            “For four years? Why?”

            Derek considers for a minute, wonders if this kid, drawn to him as he is, deserves to hear any of this.

            “I was hiding at first. They thought I was the one who did it. Then, I don’t know. Felt wrong to leave.”

            Stiles is quiet again, and Derek’s neck aches with the need to turn and look at him, to really see his face.

            “M’sorry,” Stiles mumbles, reclining his body a bit further, hand resting on the gear shift, barely an inch away from where Derek had dropped his before.

            “I have some questions,” he says, breaking the tension. He moves his hand away from Stiles’, the pull between them too much to give into right now. Not before he has some answers.

            Stiles’ fingers drum in between them, and Derek sees his head turn lazily to look at him.

            “Shoot.”

            Derek considers. So they were soulmates, which, do those even exist? And Stiles has been looking for him for centuries; stuck in this continuous loop of searching for someone whose memories of his other lives have been erased.

            “Why did this, this warlock thing, do this to us? I mean, we must have really pissed him off.”

            “His partner was even more powerful than he was, and she couldn’t control it. She wasn’t evil, but she was lost in her magic and couldn’t see what she was doing. We had to kill her. It wasn’t easy, obviously, but when you’re that lost in your powers, you’re not as on guard. You miss things because you stop paying attention,” Stiles pauses to steel himself. He sits up straight, angling his body towards Derek again. “We didn’t want to hurt her. We tried to save her but—she killed an entire village. Killed your—your family,” he whispers.

            Derek’s grip on the wheel tightens, knuckles going white. He bites down on his jaw so hard that it makes an audible pop.

            “Does my family die in every life?”

            “I don’t know. The past three, they’ve been dead.”

            They’re quiet again. Derek wants to scream, to punch something so badly he can feel it everywhere. He briefly sends out a thank you to the evil entity that did this for having the decency to erase his memory. Reliving the death of his family, let alone the deaths of his past families, would probably kill him.

            “Soulmates aren’t real,” he spits, toxic anger pouring out of him. He feels Stiles react like his words are a physical blow. He regrets saying it almost immediately.

            “They are real, just not how you might think of them. We can still fall in love and be with other people. Soulmates aren’t always romantic, either. It’s different for everyone.”

            “What were we?”

            “We were in love,” Stiles’ voice breaks, and it cuts through the fury rising in Derek’s body, spilling over it like honey. Derek’s hands loosen, jaw unclenching. He looks over to Stiles, watching his face crumble in pain. “We were in love,” he says again, “it’ more powerful for us—for me—because we never get our full lifetime together. The bond gets stronger every time I come back. Usually the pull between soulmates isn’t unmanageable, because it’s not life or death. They come in and out of our lives until they find a way to stay. But, with us, we never get the chance, so every lifetime is—“

            “Is worse than the previous one,” Derek finishes. “Is there any way to fix this? To, I don’t know, break the curse?”

            “We have to kill him.”

            “Sounds simple enough. How _do_ we kill him?”

            “Killing him is easy, it’s finding him that’s impossible,” Stiles is buzzing with energy again, and Derek thinks he can actually see the vibration of his body. He looks over at this kid, this stranger, really, and forces himself to accept the fact that he, for whatever unknown reason, believes him. With everything in him, he believes him.

            And it’s terrifying.

 


	2. The Drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Derek make it to Otto Falls, Oregon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO, I was going to wait until Sunday to post Chapter 2, but it was finished and I just couldn't wait any longer! Enjoy Chapter 2! Chapter 3 coming on the 19th :).

_…and if I / never touch you, well then, we never die. / Listen, even lovers have still lives, / have whole months when they hang / together like moths on an unlit / light bulb, waiting for the bulb to light, / but if it never does then the moths / survive, meat should be allowed / to sit on the table forever / without being devoured by flies / and if that’s not possible, well / then we still have this picture, / the still life not of how it will be, but of how it was, for the knife and the meat / and the flies, and for us on the night we / hesitated together. / From now on, love, / we will always be about to destroy / each other, always about to touch._

_— **“Still Life: An Argument,” Edward Hirsch**_

* * *

 

 

            Stiles points to a sign for 880, and Derek takes the exit on the right. It’s late now, lights from the city over the vast hills blending into the stars in the blackness above them. They’ve been driving for hours, and Derek feels the first painful pricks of exhaustion growing behind his eyes.

            “I take it he’s immortal,” he says, pushing at his temple, trying to continue the conversation from a few hours before. Stiles reaches a hand over and starts absentmindedly rubbing at the base of Derek’s neck where it meets his spine, thumb pressing and smoothing in small circles.

            “Tired?” Stiles asks, hand stilling suddenly like he realizes what he’s doing. Derek carefully tries to compose himself, to unfreeze his body so that Stiles knows that the contact is okay. He nods his head once, very slightly, and Stiles’ thumb starts moving again.

            “We should stop somewhere,” Stiles’ voice is low, a little gravelly. Derek just nods again, unable to talk over the lump in his throat. The pull between them is getting stronger by the second, every second of not touching a physical pain blooming bright and new in his stomach.

            There’s a Motel 6 up ahead, and Derek wordlessly pulls into the lot.

            “Two rooms,” Derek asks the guy at the counter. He hears Stiles sigh behind him, ignoring it in favor of staring down at his wallet.

            “Half of the rooms’re bein’ fumigated. Can’t rent out rooms with extra space. You two will have to share,” the man says, his mustache is yellow from where cigarette smoke has bleached it. Stiles is standing right beside him now, arm pressing lightly into Derek’s own.

            “Fine,” Derek bites out, body tingling where they’re touching.

            The room is dingy, the oatmeal colored carpet miraculously the nicest thing about it. There are, thankfully, two beds, each adorned with a nightmarish quilt, mustard yellow and brown stitched into the pattern.

            “Do we need to sleep in shifts? Are we in danger,” Derek is already sliding the locks on the door into place, closing the blinds and curtains. Second nature to him.

            “It couldn’t hurt. I’ll take first watch.”

            “You sure,” Derek asks, locking the windows, walking closer to Stiles to examine the dark circles under Stiles’ eyes. Without thinking, he reaches a hand out, fingers running over the bags, trying to smooth out the exhaustion. Something unnamed breaks loose in Derek when Stiles closes his eyes, pushing into the touch. His mouth falls open slightly, dry part of his upper lip still clinging to his bottom one.

            “Mhmm,” Stiles breathes, voice high-pitched and sleepy.

            Derek thinks for a minute, lifting his other hand up to join the first to rub at Stiles’ other eye.

            “We both sleep. Won’t be any good at defending ourselves if one of us is exhausted.”

            Stiles brings a hand up to hold Derek’s wrist, his breath steady and calm as he presses his face into Derek’s open palm.

            “Don’t know why I believe you,” Derek mutters, stepping closer, “shouldn’t believe you,” his nose is ghosting along Stiles’ cheek. They’re on the edge of something scary, something sharp that Derek has been hurtling towards since the moment Stiles showed up. Stiles moves closer, the soft cotton of his sweatshirt whispering across Derek’s leather jacket. Every heave of their chests brings their bodies into brief contact, lighting up Derek’s sternum like a fire. The hand on Derek’s wrist slides up, over his arms until it spreads around the back of his neck, keeping Derek’s face where it is.

            A truck blares its horn outside in the parking lot, bright lights permeating the curtains and separating them like a splash of cold water. Derek runs to the window, peeking out to check for any danger.

            “Yeah, I’ll take first watch,” Stiles says, walking over to the ancient-looking coffee maker and opening up a packet of coffee filters. Derek nods mechanically to no one in particular before shrugging his jacket off. He hesitates at the button of his jeans before unclasping them and pushing them off of his hips to the ground. Stiles is pointedly not looking at him, instead his hands are fumbling with the instant coffee packet. Derek climbs under the hideous covers. There’s a large, brown stain on the ceiling that looks like someone spilled black tea, and he stares at it until deciding that it looks vaguely like an airplane, the brown wings extending on either side before bleeding into the center.

            “Three hours. Wake me up then, okay?” His eyes are heavy with sleep, and he’s out before he can register Stiles’ reply.

            It’s morning when Derek wakes up. The curtains are still closed, but he feels the warmth radiating through the cloth, sees one spot of light where the sun has managed to sneak through. Dust specs are floating in the thin sliver of gold, and Derek rolls over onto his stomach, forgetting where he is for the briefest of moments, just long enough to shoot up and out of bed like he’s on fire.

            Stiles is at the small table by the doorway, slumped over in the chair with his cheek pressed into what looks like a journal. There are papers spread all around him, some scattered on the ground by his feet. A pen is still peaking out of his right hand, standing upright on the paper like he fell asleep in the middle of writing.

            Derek walks over and runs a cautious hand over the paper Stiles is sleeping on, careful to avoid staring too long at his open mouth, soft little moans pushing out of him like half snores. The top of the page says yesterday’s date.

            Careful as to not wake Stiles just yet, Derek slides the journal out from under him just slowly enough that his cheek gently hits the cool wood of the coffee table. He flips the journal over in his hands, admiring the soft leather and how well-worn it feels. It’s small and dark brown, with scuff marks all along the binding from being opened repeatedly. The first page on the inside says:

_Property of: Stiles Stilinski_

_Stilinski_ , Derek thinks, turning the word over in his mouth, whispering it to himself like it will suddenly become familiar to him. He flips a few pages in, stopping when he sees the date.

_1858, Boston, MA._

_His name was Alec Lloyd. 24. Took 10 years to find him. I broke my ankle in Worcester and he was a physician in Boston._

_Didn’t remember. Didn’t want to remember. Was widowed with 3 children. Family killed in factory fire._

_Died at 26._

Derek swallows, flips a few pages back.

_1697, Hertfordshire, England._

_Christofor. Never got his last name. Killed in battle. Died in my arms. 18._

            Derek flips through several other pages, some lengthier than others, depending on how long Derek lived and if he went with Stiles. Over forty entries, Derek counts. He doesn’t read them all. Can’t read them all, but he dies in every single one before he turns 30. One page is just a sketch of him, the date saying it was 1748.

            “Found my journal,” Stiles croaks. His head is still resting on the table, amber eyes squinted and sleepy as he watches Derek.

            “You really remember everything?” He earns a soft nod from Stiles, who sits up and stretches. Derek’s mouth goes dry when his sweatshirt and undershirt lift up to reveal the smooth expanse of his lower torso; perfect skin, adorned with small brown flecks like the ones on his face and neck. There’s a pretty large black design peeking out from where his shirt has ridden up. Lines swirl out in every which direction in a way that looks eerily familiar.

            “What’s that,” Derek motions with his chin, and Stiles’ follows his gaze until it lands on the mark.

            “Celtic protection symbol,” he pulls his shirt up even higher, revealing a circular pattern that takes up a good half of his torso. The tattoo looks new, with fresh, jet black lines whirling in intricate patterns along his ribs. “Wards off evil spirits and makes it harder for dark magic to find me.”

            “I have one, too,” Derek mutters, hand immediately going to press at the forgotten ink at the top of his back, hiding just beneath the neckline of his shirt. He hesitates for a moment, suddenly shy when Stiles asks to see it. His back is tense when the stale air of the motel room hits it, and he turn his away from Stiles before he can react to the loud, surprised gasp that he makes. He feels Stiles’ gaze roaming over him, skin prickly absolutely everywhere that his eyes are touching. He’s holding his shirt in his hands and squeezing it so hard that it’s going to be wrinkled by the time he puts it back on.

 

            They’re silent for so long that Derek thinks Stiles has fallen asleep again before shy fingertips touch his back.

            “What does it mean,” Stiles whispers, fingers dancing over the top swirl before coming down to trace the one on the left. There’s an intimacy to Stiles’ voice that makes Derek shudder everywhere.

            “Triskele. It’s used in several different cultures, but the Celtic meaning is about moving forward,” Derek breathes. “My sisters and I all have—had it. A swirl for each of us, connecting in the middle. Ever onward.”

            Stiles’ palm smooths out over the heart of the tattoo, pressing lightly before disappearing. “It’s beautiful,” he whispers, and then his mouth presses once, twice, three times; a kiss for each swirl.

            It’s too intimate. Derek’s shaking all over, shirt a miserable ball in his left fist. He waits for Stiles to take his mouth away but he doesn’t. They stay like that for some immeasurable moment until Derek feels tears coming, so lost in the tenderness that he has to break the contact. “Gonna take a shower,” he mumbles before he completely fucking loses it. It’s been too long since someone’s touched him without wanting to take anything, and it’s worse that it’s Stiles. Harder, somehow. Stiles doesn’t protest when Derek walks away, just makes a soft lilting noise before turning around and picking up his papers.

            They peel out back onto 880, Stiles’ instructions taking them to his place in the uppermost tip of California, just across the border into Oregon. He offers to take over the wheel, but Derek sees the thinly veiled exhaustion in his face and refuses. They settle into a comfortable silence, eyes on the road ahead.

            The drive is beautiful. Derek never had the chance to explore anywhere, and he’s amazed by how different everything looks. He cracks the window open just enough to let the smell of the autumn air fill the car. Leaves and no fire. Not even a hint of rain. Just the crisp fall wind, faint smell of pastry from the roadside farmer’s market they’re passing. California is so much bigger than he even imagined it could be, and he’s struck with such an intense amount of regret for not taking his sisters to see the whole wide world while they still could. Laura always talked about going east, about the Hot Springs in Arkansas. She had a map on the wall of her bedroom with little blue pins stuck to different locations all across America.

            “What are you thinking about,” Stiles is looking at him, head and body angled towards him with one foot up on the dash like this is just something they do.

            “My sisters,” Derek smiles, “This was Laura’s car, actually, before it was mine. She had all these travelling plans for when she finished college. Wanted to see the east coast, the Great Smoky Mountains and New York.”

            “I’ve been to New York. My brother Scott and I road tripped down there a few years back. Wish I could’ve told her that it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

            “Yeah? How so,” Derek teases, warmth spreading to his face from talking about his family. It’s been so long since he got to do this.

            “It’s smelly and hot. You make one wrong turn and there’s just endless nightmarish alleyways.”

            “How about upstate? Cora wanted to go to school there. The pictures made it look so nice.”

            “Oh, upstate is spectacular. Trees like you wouldn’t believe. I went horseback riding up there and broke my collarbone. It was worth it though because everything was so pristine. The water looked like diamonds,” Stiles is smiling at nothing, a wistful expression on his face that Derek realizes he’s mirroring.

            “Wish I could’ve taken them,” he muses, and instead of the crippling despair and anguish that usually comes with talking or thinking about his family, he’s smiling so hard it hurts his face.

            “They’re with you now,” Stiles says, matter-of-factly, and it’s a thing that people say a lot, Derek knows, but it’s true. It’s true if he wants it to be, if he imagines them here with him, carries them in his body with him.

            Like every other time he’s ever touched Stiles, he doesn’t think about it. His hand rests on Stiles’ leg and squeezes, then stays there while they drive.

 

 

 

 

            The town is even smaller than Beacon Hills, and Derek doesn’t miss the way Stiles lights up when they pass the sign: _Welcome to Otto Falls, Oregon!_

            They pass the downtown area, about two square blocks, and move along down the main roads, passing the surprisingly huge high school. Stiles talks his ear off for ten minutes straight about what it was like there, mentioning Scott again, and Lydia, a girl he used to like. There’s a pang of jealousy in Derek’s gut that shouldn’t be there while he talks about her. Derek watches as much as possible, feeling oddly rushed; like he needs to remember this before it’s gone for good. Every stop sign, every light, even if it’s just yellow, he stops and turns his full attention to Stiles; the way his hands float through the air while he’s talking, the way his knee vibrates constantly, the perfect curve of his cheekbones, the soft hairs at the nape of his neck.

            He feels warm all over, being here, looking at him, and for the thousandth time since he left Beacon Hills, he wants to reach across the space of the Camaro and kiss the kid senseless.

            “Stop here,” Stiles says abruptly, in the middle of retelling a particularly vivid story about a guy named Greenberg walking in on Stiles in the locker room showers. They’re out front of what looks like a veterinary clinic. It’s small, unassuming in size and decoration. There’s an old blue jeep parked out front and a yellow motorcycle. “That’s my baby,” Stiles beams, and Derek somehow knows he’s talking about the crappy old jeep and not the motorcycle. Stiles runs over to pat it on the hood, causing it to pop open with a loud, painful creak. He curses under his breath before using his entire body to slam it back down.

            “You didn’t take it with you to California?”

            “Nope, she wouldn’t have made it. I took buses,” Stiles is breathing heavily, leaning on the jeep like he wasn’t just struggling to close the hood.

            “She?” Derek quirks his eyebrow, hint of a smirk pulling at his mouth. Stiles blushes.

            “Anyway, there’re some people I want you to meet. They’ve kind of been helping me with all of this,” Stiles gestures between him and Derek.

            The inside of the clinic is exactly what he expected, the smell of antiseptic permeating the air, with a hint of air freshener. The counter to the right is clean, with nothing but a small bucket of pens and a little plastic bouquet of flowers in a vase.

            “We’re here!” Stiles brushes past Derek, voice echoing through the small room and through the open doorway up ahead. He hears a few murmurs before a calm voice calls for them to come to the back.

            The operating room, Derek realizes, as he walks through the doors into the main part of the clinic. There are counters and cabinets all filled with various medical equipment; scalpels, gauze, bandages.

            There are four people standing around a metal table, and the tallest of the bunch walks forward with his hand extended. He’s wearing a white lab coat, neatly ironed.

            “Derek, it’s so nice to meet you. Stiles has told us all, well, a lot about your situation,” the man smiles, dark, kind eyes crinkling around the corners. “I’m Deaton. Alan Deaton.”

            Derek reaches out to shake his hand, about to say something back when the guy who was hovering behind him brushes past Deaton to trap Derek in a bear hug.

            Scott. Stiles warned him about this. He’s beginning to wonder if anyone close to Stiles has the same reaction to strangers.

            Scott squeezes once before letting go and stepping back, face still lit up, and Derek would be uncomfortable if everything about Scot didn’t remind him of a puppy dog. There’s this energy radiating from him that makes Derek immediately disarm. The smile accentuates his lopsided jawline, so endearing Derek finds himself almost smiling back.

            “Hey man, I’m Scott. Stiles’ brother. Well, step-brother, but we never call each other that,” Derek nods his head and gives him a small smile. The pretty, short-haired girl who was standing to the far right of the table comes up besides Scott and loops her arms through his. She has dimples and chocolate brown eyes, just as gentle and kind as Scott’s.

            “I’m Allison,” she smiles, reaching out a long, graceful hand to shake Derek’s.

            Stiles is talking with a girl over in the corner. Their heads are pressed very closely together, whispering. Her hair is an enchanting orange, cascading over her shoulders and swaying every time she moves her head. She’s beautiful.

            “Hey, Derek, this is Lydia,” Stiles breaks Derek out of his reverie with a hand on his shoulder. The girl, Lydia, has her lips pursed, green eyes smiling and strangely smug.

            “He’s cute, Stiles,” she says, cocking her head to the side as Derek shakes her hand, trying not to blush.

            “ _Lydia_ ,” Stiles warns, tone exasperated like this is just something that she does.

            “I hate to cut the pleasantries short, but we’re all here for a real reason,” the guy, Deaton says, looking at Lydia pointedly. Her expression doesn’t falter, but she steps back, nodding her head slightly and walking over to grab Allison’s hand.

            “Derek, as you can tell, I’m a veterinarian, but I’m also...a bit more than that,” Deaton says. Derek stares back uncomprehendingly. “You didn’t tell him everything, did you?” He asks Stiles, disappointed.

            “I tried! There was a lot to tell and I didn’t want to scare him,” Stiles defends, looking at Derek and mouthing _sorry._ Deaton sighs.

            “Do you know why you’re here, Derek?” When Derek shakes his head, Deaton flips through the pages of an ancient-looking book perched in the middle of the metal table, looking for something.

            “So Stiles told you about being soulmates, which I’m sure you’re having trouble understanding, right? Did he tell you about the person who did this to you?” Deaton’s hand is resting on a page, and he motions for Derek to come over. There’s a drawing of a figure in a hood, iridescent swirls adorning his robe. His face is covered in shadow, but enough light is hitting it that he can see the severe cheekbones, the gray palor of the skin and the whites of his eyes glowing. His hands are gnarled claws, and angry, neon blue smoke seems to be rising from them.

            “This,” Deaton says, “is a warlock who goes by the name Drachen. He’s the one who did this to you.”

            Derek shivers visibly, suddenly aware that every pair of eyes in the room are on him. He can feel Stiles somewhere behind him, but he’s too stubborn to reach or ask for him.

            “You killed his lover, Lilura, after she massacred a village. Drachen, full of grief, placed a curse on you and Stiles, vowing to make one of you live with the memory of the other, while the other one has no recollection. Lifetime after lifetime, you two were cursed to be reborn, destined to find each other but not always able to,” Deaton pauses respectfully when he notices the white knuckled grip Derek has on the table now. The influx of information, the complete depth of what has apparently been done to them, is making him dizzy. “What we’re starting to realize, is that Drachen not only made it nearly impossible for you two to ever find each other, but also saw to it that you did not live past the age of 26.”

            The pit of Derek’s stomach goes cold, throat so tight he can’t breathe at all. In an instant, Stiles is beside him, resting his hand on his back, right where the Triskele is. It’s enough to keep him from passing out, but barely. He turns 26 in exactly a month. One fucking month before he, what, dies?

            “So, as you can see, your situation is a bit dire. The magic that Drachen used was ancient magic. The good news is that he wasn’t as powerful as he is now, so it’s starting to wear off after the past few centuries. The bad news is that, since he’s still alive, he’ll be looking for you to finish the job.”

            “So I have on month to live, and if we don’t find him before that, I die and have to go through this all over again,” his vision’s blurry, now. One month. One month and then he’s born again, has to lose his family all over again. He’s furious at nothing, at everything, and he pulls himself away from Stiles, who has been silent the entire time.

            “I know that this is a lot, Derek, but we don’t have the time to break this to you gently. He could be here any day now, if he isn’t already,” Deaton’s voice is calm and patient, and Derek can barely register it over the roaring in his ears. He vaguely hears Stiles ask if they can have a minute, to which everyone in the room clears out.

            Some seconds later, he feels Stiles’ hands on his face, stroking the high point of his cheekbone.

            “Hey, hey, look at me, Der, okay,” he begs, on his knees to meet Derek where he has apparently fallen. He musters every ounce of strength that he has and looks Stiles in the eye, momentarily grounded as he watches Stiles take big, full-bodied breaths. “That’s it, so good,” he soothes, just holding Derek’s face while he regulates his breathing. “Know this is hard for you, must sound so insane,” he’s cooing, petting Derek’s face, knees pressing against his own. He holds him like that for a while until he starts breathing normally, chest sore from the lack of oxygen.

             “Better?”

            Derek just nods, because he can’t trust himself to do anything else. Footsteps from across the room remind him that they’re not alone, and he and Stiles straighten up and rise to their feet.

            “The memories are coming back,” Deaton says like nothing has happened, “Maybe not vivid ones, but the soulmate pull is starting to affect you, too. Don’t worry, that’s a good thing,” he reassures when he sees Derek’s face flush. “It brings us one step closer to stopping Drachen.”

            “How?”

            “We believe that Drachen chose you to lose your memories instead of Stiles because you saw his human form. If we are able to unlock your memories, truly unlock them, then we stand a chance of finding him before he finds us.”

            “How are we going to do that? Unlock my memories?” The room goes quiet. He sees Scott visibly wince, and Allison reaches forward to squeeze Derek’s forearm reassuringly.         

            “You have to drown,” Lydia says, picking at a nail on her left hand. There’s sympathy in her voice and in the quirk of her mouth, but she’s hiding it. Not her style, Derek presumes.

            “I have to drown,” It’s not a question. Stiles’ hand is a hot pressure on his lower back, rubbing small circles.

            “Not completely,” Scott steps forward, “You obviously aren’t going to die, but you have to stay under until you’re in the in-between. Since the magic is wearing off, the veil is much thinner; easier to access. It's where your old memories are,” Scott is looking at him like he’s a second away from bolting.

            It’s not a real thought in his head, but it is _there_ , floating around in the back somewhere, that he could just leave. Just…run out of the door and into his car and drive until the entire West Coast is behind him. Explore the country until his time is up, then lay down by the tree out front of his house and join his sisters until fate wrenches him back out of the ground again.

            “Don’t,” he hears Stiles whisper; so low that no one else registers it. “I know what you’re thinking about, and please—don’t.”

            He doesn’t look at Stiles’ face, knowing all too well what he’ll find there—that raw panic, so wide open that Derek will fall right into him and never come out.

            “We don’t have to do this right now,” Deaton assures him, walking back over to the table to close his book. “In fact, this entire thing is up to you, Derek. If you don’t want your memories back, if you want to be free to live the next month of your life however you choose, none of us will stop you,” Deaton looks at Stiles when he says this, not Derek. “This is _your_ choice,” he says, firmly.

            “Tomorrow,” Derek says, surprisingly sure. “Tomorrow, I’ll be ready.” Stiles’ entire body relaxes against Derek, puff of hot air warming his bicep. Deaton nods, adjusting the buttons on his lab coat.

            “Tomorrow afternoon. Go get some rest, and eat something, the both of you. You look malnourished and we need you at your best,” and with that, he’s walking out of the room.

            “Derek, you can stay with us, if you’d like,” Allison offers, wrapping her arm around Scott’s shoulders and leaning into him. He throws her a goofy smile before nodding his head.

            “I’d offer that you could stay at my place, but my dog hates men,” Lydia states with a flick of her long hair. Derek actually snorts at that, and she throws him a small smile. He can see why Stiles liked her so much back in high school.

            “Up to you, Derek. I live below Scott and Allison. I’m not expecting you to stay with me, though,” Stiles says, moving so that he can look Derek in the eyes.

            The idea of not being around Stiles right now, with only a month left to live, makes Derek feel sick all over his body.

            “I think we’re past the point of pretending like we don’t need each other,” he settles on, because it’s the truth and because he’s mostly talking about himself. He’s done fighting the pull, the ache deep in his gut; done acting like he has any kind of home to go back to.

            Stiles swallows and Derek tracks the bob of his adam’s apple.

            “Let’s go, then.”


	3. The Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles takes Derek back to his apartment before the ritual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter coming your way on Saturday, the 26th! ENJOY!

 

_But one kiss levitates above all the others. The_

_intersection of function and desire. The I do kiss._

_The I’ll love you through a brick wall kiss._

_Even when I’m dead, I’ll swim through the Earth,_

_like a mermaid of the soil, just to be next to your bones._

_—Jeffrey McDaniel_

 

* * *

 

 

 

            Stiles’ apartment is unexpectedly tidy. He takes him on the tour once they say their goodbyes to Scott and Allison. It’s small and simple. His bedroom is covered in posters of superheroes, and there’s a huge Captain America cardboard cutout in the right corner that makes Derek jump when he first walks into the room. Stiles laughs for a full two minutes, afterwards.

            He leaves Derek for a moment to call Deaton about casting a protection spell over the apartment. While he’s gone, he walks the length of the tiny bedroom, running his hands along the worn, cotton sheets before sitting cautiously at the edge of the bed. There is a stack of books on the desk in front of him, all on ancient druid rituals, and one on the history of soulmates. Derek smiles for a moment in complete disbelief that Stiles has dedicated his entire life, or lives, to finding him. All those years of fruitless searching; There’s an unpleasant twist in his gut, and he suddenly feels completely unworthy of every effort that’s ever been made to find him.

            A bright orange fog bursts through the room and stops his thoughts, expanding outward and dissipating somewhere past the window. It leaves little bright flecks of light sparking in his peripherals.

            Getting up to look out into the living room, he blinks a few times before his vision is clear enough of the light to see Stiles hunched over a book the size of his entire head. His legs are crossed and his eyes are closed. There’s some kind of amulet in his hands and he’s stroking it over and over as his mouth mutters unintelligible words. His lips are parted, eyes squeezed shut in concentration, and the same orange fog as before is engulfing him, making him look otherworldly; too beautiful in his element to be real.

            Derek waits and watches as the fog disappears and Stiles’ mouth stills. There’s a quiet hush around the entire apartment; a warm glow that Derek feels all the way to his toes.

            “You practice magic a lot,” Derek finds himself asking, crossing his arms and leaning against the frame of Stiles’ bedroom door.

            “Guess so,” Stiles smiles, wiping his hands off on his thigh and closing the huge book in front of him. He seems content to leave it at that, and Derek doesn’t push, just watches Stiles move around the apartment, checking the locks  on the door once, twice, then moving his way over to the windows.

            “Hey, why don’t you go shower and I can make food or something? We haven’t eaten since California.”

            Stiles finishes checking the windows before shrugging an turning to face Derek. “I don’t have much. There’s probably a jar of pasta sauce somewhere and spaghetti in one of the cabinets.”

            “Okay, go shower. Food will be ready when you’re out.”

            “Are you trying to tell me I smell,” Stiles teases, moving so that he’s within touching distance. He’s got this smirk on his face, a sort of post-magic buzz hanging over him, and it’s driving Derek crazy, makes him want to kiss him absolutely senseless.

            “Yes, Stiles, I’m telling you that you stink,” He teases back, smiling so hard his mouth hurts. Stile has managed to move even closer, that smile so, so close, pulling at him like a magnet.

            Stiles leans in at the same exact moment that a loud rumble erupts from his stomach.

            “Shower,” Derek whispers, mouth just barely touching Stiles’ lips. Stiles whines, punching Derek weakly in the arm before heading towards the bathroom, ripping off his hoodie and shirt just to especially punish Derek.

            It’s a long shower. Stiles emerges from the bathroom, steam clinging to him like his magic, and Derek is already placing the bowls of spaghetti and sauce on the small dining room table. He smells like citrus and apple shampoo, taste of it sharp on Derek’s tongue.

            They wordlessly eat their food, scarfing it down. Derek didn’t realize how hungry he was until he started shoveling the pasta into his mouth. Stiles moans loudly somewhere after his third bite, and Derek almost chokes on his food, spending the rest of the time staring at his bowl.

            They kill the entire box of pasta. Stiles is licking his bowl clean, which normally wouldn’t do it for Derek, but he can’t make himself look away; those long, nimble fingers following and swiping along the edges of the white ceramic.

            “Should order a pizza,” Stiles groans, leaning back in his chair and rubbing at his full stomach. It’s a little distended from food, golden hair peeking out from where his shirt is riding up.

            “Are you out of your mind?” Derek starts cleaning off the table, practically wrestling Stiles’ empty bowl out of his hands.

            “You ask that in every lifetime,” Stiles smiles, whimsically, his eyes following Derek as he cleans off the table.

            He’s not sure what to say. The dishes are rinsed and stacked in the small, white sink, and he hears Stiles come up behind him, chin hooking over his shoulder to watch him as he washes his hands.

            “Tell me about us before all of this,.”

            He didn’t know he was going to say that, tensing momentarily in panic when Stiles slowly moves to press his back against the fridge beside Derek, head tipping back to stare at the ceiling.

            “I don’t know,” he muses, eyes far away, “You were a baker in England. That was our first lifetime together. You hated me because I always tracked mud all through your shop. I was a farmer and my parents would always—they’d always send me to your place for bread. I didn’t like going because your family made me nervous,” Stiles laughs, rubbing the back of his neck, refusing to make eye contact, “Anyway, I got caught in the rain one day and you flat out refused to let me in to your shop, instead taking me around back and herding me to your place upstairs to borrow clean shoes. And we just…were, after that.”

            “Wasn’t it hard, back then?” Derek asks, because he just has to ruin the moment.

            “Yeah, one thing that hasn’t changed much. Well, it’s changed, but it’s mostly just gotten more complicated.”

            They’re quiet for a long time. Derek’s hands are still on the faucet, stuck there while they breathe together in the silence. He really, really wants to touch Stiles, and he isn’t sure why he’s still fighting it. It’s not because he doesn’t believe—that uncertainty left him almost the minute he got in his car. It’s the fear of having this and then…not having it. Of forgetting all over again, of maybe being better off never having this, whatever it is.

            Stiles is still pressed against the fridge, mouth parted slightly like it always is. An ache pulses through Derek’s fingertips, travelling up his arms and into his throat.

            “It must be so hard, remembering me when I can’t remember you. Remembering being with me, and, and touching. Feeling,” Derek’s voice is rough after all of the silence; low and shaky. He’s filled with this intense need to be close to Stiles, to have his hands on him, to know and feel him there with him, just this once.

            “Sometimes we wouldn’t get to touch,” Stiles whispers, like it hurts too much to say loudly, “In 1918, we didn’t even kiss. You—you died before I could touch you. Before I could tell you anything. I found you and you were already dying. “

            “Spanish influenza,” Derek murmurs, remembering learning about it in history class. Stiles nods once, vein in his neck jumping like he’s struggling to swallow.

            “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. For—for putting you through that,” and he knows he doesn’t have to apologize; that whatever was done to them was out of their control, but it feels like the right thing to say.

            Stiles starts crying. It comes out as a loud sob that makes Derek jump. He sinks down the fridge until he’s sitting in a pile on the cold kitchen tile, and Derek’s there instantly, kneeling in front of him, crowding into his space, hands hovering and ready to comfort. Stiles’ hands are fisted in his hair, elbows resting on his knees and he’s rocking back and forth, cries breaking off into half-formed sentences.

            “Hey, hey,” Derek panics, grabbing both of Stiles’ hands until they pull away from his hair. He scoops Stiles up, carrying him over to the dining room and setting him down in a chair. His stomach is pressing painfully into the seat, body pushing in between Stiles’ legs to get as close as possible. He drops his hands, and Stiles immediately melts off of the chair and into Derek’s body like warm water, pouring back into his lap.

            “You have no idea,” Stiles breathes wetly into Derek’s collarbone, mouth sloppy against his shoulder, “I’m born remembering, but I, I can’t _do_ anything with it. I have to wait _years_ , planning and looking for you however I can, whatever the, the time period allows. Sometimes I never find you, and I just fucking die with this ache in me that never goes away. And wh-when I do find you, that look in your eyes, no matter how much I think I can make you remember,” Stiles’ hands are two immovable fists on Derek’s chest, his t-shirt wrinkled and ruined in their grip. He’s crying, too, he realizes, one hand holding Stiles’ lower back, the other tangled in his hair, “He took you from me. He keeps _taking_ you from me and I can’t fight him,”

            “Touch me,” Derek says, because he can’t hear another word, can’t bear another second of this lifetime, of any lifetime, where he doesn’t have Stiles’ mouth and hands on him. He’s mindless, so keyed up and so absolutely devastated that he doesn’t even realize how hard he’s breathing, how close to a full blown panic attack he is. “Touch me,” Derek says again, louder, “you’ve waited long enough, right? Been looking for me forever.”

            “You want me to,” Stiles moans, lifting his head up to look at Derek, eyes practically glowing. Derek nods once, roughly, hands coming down to lift Stiles’ shirt up high enough for him to get a grip on his bare hips.

            “Want you to. While there’s time,” Derek breathes, nose teasing along Stiles’ jaw. Stiles makes a broken sound before diving in, mouth slamming hard and hungry against Derek’s with so much force that he’s pushed onto his back, Stiles practically climbing him like an uncaged animal.

            It’s so much. Derek feels centuries sliding in and out of place, feels the weight of every missed moment crashing and burning in his chest. An open gunshot wound to his chest, a painful ache in his abdomen, a sharp blow to the back of his head. He feels every way he’s ever died, feels the cuts, the ailments come almost as quickly as they and go, dissipating like smoke as Stiles pours into Derek’s mouth. His hands move to pull at Stiles’ hair, hold his head in place, just trying to get him to hold _still_ long enough for Derek to take control for a minute.

            “Is it always like this,” Derek breathes hot into Stiles’ mouth, licking in before moving to his neck, “feel like I’m dying,” he moans, sitting up, picking Stiles up with him as he gets to his feet and letting him wrap his legs around him. He swings them around so that Stiles is against the wall, writhing like a dying thing, grinding down onto Derek’s knee. A few pictures fall from their perch on the wall, clattering to the ground unceremoniously.

            “Looked everywhere for you. W-waited so long,” Stiles cries, hands pressing into Derek’s cheek, forehead bruising Derek’s like he wants to push right through him and settle inside.

            “I’m here now, I’m here, God,” Derek’s falling apart. Stiles is a blur of movement, pressing into his body and making it sing in a way it never has before. So unlike anyone else he’s ever been with.

            “Don’t leave again, Derek, you can’t—you can’t leave me,” Stiles is crying again, wet tears smearing over Derek’s cheek, dripping into their mouths while they kiss, the bitter salt making him give even more, even harder.

            “Shhh,” Derek coos, adjusting his grip on Stiles’ back, one arm going down to hold his legs, before laying him out on the couch in the main room and falling over him, “Not going anywhere. Gonna stay right here. Gonna,” he pauses to bite at Stiles’ lip, “take my time,” stopping again to kiss two tears off of his cheek, “with you.”

            Stiles moans, soft and long, hand clamping down like vice grips on Derek’s shoulders before flipping them over. He spreads himself on top of Derek, crotches aligning perfectly, friction making Derek bite down on his lip. Stiles rips his shirt off before coming back down to rest his elbows on either side of Derek’s head.

            “Wanna make you feel good,” he whispers, licking into Derek’s mouth, tasting him. Derek’s hands slide down his back before clamping down hard on Stiles’ ass, pushing him down and up, the movement so good his brain short circuits, pulling out of him an endless loop of _Stiles._

            Stiles reaches between them, undoing the button on Derek’s jeans and slipping under his boxers, grabbing the hot, heavy heat of him.

            “Fuck,” Derek almost yells; hand closing over Stiles’, not knowing what he’s trying to do.

            “Let me,” he moans, hand moving up and down at a torturously slow pace. Derek lets go, head crashing back onto the arm of the couch, whole world shrinking to the size of Stiles on top of him, all over him.  “Want you all the time, all the time,” Stiles is breathing hot and heavy into Derek’s mouth. His teeth are pressing against Derek’s while his tongue wanders over the ridges of his canines, and he’s in heaven, in fucking heaven right now. Stiles all over him, spread on top of his body like a second skin that he likes more than his own. He didn’t even know he missed this, that familiar, centuries old rage coming to the surface. How dare anyone take this from him? How dare they try to take this from him again?

            “Stiles, fuck, I’m gonna, gonna—“

            “Do it,” he groans, hand stilling and thumb pressing right on the underside of his cock, and Derek spills all over Stiles’ hand. His entire body lifts off of the couch as he comes, eyes and mouth wide open as he watches Stiles watching him, sweat clinging to their foreheads where they’re still pressed together. He forgets how to breathe, body one single string of need splayed out on the couch, so intense he thinks he might pass out. Stiles is still writhing above him, whispering filthy things into his mouth, pushing back into Derek’s hands while Derek comes back to himself, almost sobbing as Stiles still works at his oversensitive dick.

            “Need it, Derek, please,” Stiles is whispering now, and it forces him back into his body. Shaking off the high of his orgasm, he reaches his hand into the back of Stiles’ jeans, slipping under the waistband of his briefs, pressing in between him until Stiles is keening, pushing into his fingers until the blunt head of Derek’s pointer finger is inside of him.

            “So hot for me, so good,” Derek murmurs, pressing in a little deeper. He tries to memorize the noises Stiles is making, the way he’s pushing back. After a few small movements, Derek pushes his whole finger inside, Stiles’ muscle contracting and squeezing, wringing as much sensation as he can as Derek presses another one in alongside.

            “Fuck me, fuck me, feel so good inside me, fuck” Stiles is sweating, hand moving lightning fast, and Derek’s about to lose it.

            “Come on, come on,” Derek growls, both fingers firmly inside of him, pumping at a frantic pace, skidding along that soft spot inside of him. “Come for me,” he whispers, biting hard at Stiles’ neck, and Stiles goes stone-still, body frozen in the most delicious arch. His ass squeezing Derek’s fingers so hard, and the feeling goes straight to his groin, dick threatening to get hard again. When Stiles finally breathes, he almost screams, body wracked with shakes as he makes an aborted thrust, once, twice, four more times, before collapsing over Derek, the noise of his body hitting Derek’s cum covered stomach obscene and beautiful in the quiet air.

            “Came untouched, fuck,” Derek sighs reverently, pulling his fingers out of Stiles slowly to grab his face and kiss him, this time soft, loving nips at his bottom lip. It takes him a minute to realize that Stiles is still crying

            “It’s okay, it’s okay. Gonna have me for a long time.”

            Stiles just buries his face in Derek’s chest and stays there until he stops shaking. Derek’s not sure it’s the truth, can’t really promise anything, especially this. But he wants it to be true, now. More than ever.”

            They lay there, cum cooling and drying between them. It’s disgusting and uncomfortable, but neither of them make any motion to move, clinging to each other like it’s their last night together.

 

 


	4. The Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You’re Drachen,” Derek states, and his hood slips off to reveal his grey, gnarled face. Sharp, yellow teeth shine as he snarls.
> 
> “I cannot believe it has taken you so long, Derek,” his voice is muffled and low, like he’s speaking through a vocal changer. It’s chilling.
> 
> “Well I’m here now, so what do you want?”
> 
> “You’ve already given me what I want,” the thing practically purrs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 is here! Yay! This one is a bit darker than the rest, because Derek gets his memories back and they're...not pleasant ones. So fair warning, there's a lot of fire and death. 
> 
> Don't worry, though. It gets better. :)
> 
> As always, kudos and comments make me all warm inside! And come say hi to me on tumblr! @ineachplace.tumblr.com
> 
> Next chapter in ONE WEEK!

 

 

_"_ _Oh, body, be held now by whom you love._

_Whole years will be spent, underneath these impossible stars,_

_when dirt’s the only animal who will sleep with you_

_& touch you with _

_its mouth.”_

**written by Aracelis Girmay, from “Kingdom Animalia,”**

 

** **

 

            Morning finds them too quickly. Stiles is still plastered to Derek’s chest, a puddle of drool soaking into Derek’s soft t-shirt. It’s overcast outside, and the soft, gray light of the morning is drowning the small apartment. Derek doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the weight of Stiles on top of him, to the particular sensation of their legs entwined together like ivy on the side of a house.

            “Feel gross,” Stiles mumbles, waking up slowly to rest his chin on Derek’s chest, “I drooled all over you,” he smiles, and Derek doesn’t even care about the morning breath, of the dry jizz literally gluing their stomachs together. It’s all worth it to have Stiles this close, to have all of his attention.

            They shower separately, kissing each other every time they pass. There’s an easiness to their interactions now; less hurried and desperate. Soft pecks that taste like coffee. Derek knows that will change after today, when his memories come back fully, but, right now, it’s perfect. It’s domestic bliss. They had this night together, and Derek will hold onto this until his last breath.

            “You ready for this,” Stiles asks from the passenger’s seat of the Camaro. It’s noon and they’re parked outside of the clinic. Yellow and red leaves are blowing across the empty parking lot, and the “Closed” sign rattles in the door.

            Truthfully, Derek isn’t ready. He’s not sure it’s ever possible to be ready to drown within an inch of your life. He nods, anyway, jaw clicking as he grinds his teeth in determination.

            A huge metal tub is in the middle of the operating room. The water inside of it is still and calm, only filled about halfway to leave room for the ice and Derek’s body. Allison and Scott are waiting for him, turning away from Deaton to fix the same worried, caring look on him.

            “We’re going to need for you to take off your jeans and your over-shirt,” Deaton explains as he and Lydia, who has emerged from the back room, fill the tub with a shocking amount of ice. “You’re going to struggle a lot. I’m sure you know that. We’re going to have to hold you down until your heartrate is below the threshold. We’re not going to let up until then, okay? We need you to trust that we’re not going to let you die.”

            Derek nods curtly, “What am I going to remember,” he finds himself asking, the familiar weight of Stiles’ body pressed all along his side.

            “Everything,” Deaton says, an intense stare making Derek’s face falter. “Every life, every death, every single moment between when this happened and now.”

            Derek nods again. It’s what he expected, but he needed to hear it out loud. He slowly peels off his Henley, then slides his shoes off and pushes his pants down his legs.

            “I’ll be here when you wake up,” Stiles assures, kissing his shoulder lightly before Derek walks over to the tub. Deaton gives him a quick nod, and Derek gets in, squeezing his eyes shut until only his head is above the water. Lydia, who was busy reading over the book on the table, gives him a sympathetic stare before he feels Deaton’s hands on both of his shoulders. He’s already shivering violently.

            “Ready,” Deaton asks, pressing a little harder on his shoulders. Allison, Scott and Stiles have their sleeves rolled up, each kneeling around him.

            “I love you,” Stiles whispers, voice tickling his ear. It’s the last thing that Derek hears before he’s being pushed underwater. For a good thirty seconds, he doesn’t move. Let’s the ice cold water shock him into stillness. It’s only when the burn in his lungs becomes unbearable that he starts to fight against it; primal instincts eclipsing his knowledge of what he’s doing. There are hands all over him, some pushing on his chest, some holding down his legs, some on his shoulders. It’s agony. Pure and unfiltered agony, and he can’t stop fighting, can’t stop trying to claw his way out.

            He opens his eyes and looks up, and through the panic, he sees the blurry, watery image of Stiles’ face hanging above him. His mouth is moving like it always its, but its slower, more rhythmic through the haze. It grounds him for a few extra seconds, and he stills again, letting the ice water burn him up from the inside out. His chest feels like a balloon about to snap, and he can’t fight anymore. He kicks out a few more times before his mouth opens and the water pours in, vision going dark and cloudy.

 

            Derek isn’t in his body anymore. He’s standing in a pitch white room, walls and ceilings and floors indistinguishable from each other. There’s a hooded figure sitting in the middle of the space, hand moving in elegant circles around bright, inhuman swirls of light. He knows who it is before he takes a single step.

            “You’re Drachen,” Derek states, and his hood slips off to reveal his grey, gnarled face. Sharp, yellow teeth shine as he snarls.

            “I cannot believe it has taken you so long, Derek,” his voice is muffled and low, like he’s speaking through a vocal changer. It’s chilling.

            “Well I’m here now, so what do you want?”

            “You’ve already given me what I want,” the thing practically purrs. He stands up, giant figure floating towards him. Derek can’t move. The whiteness around him suddenly starts to shrink, the closer it gets, strange magic making Derek convulse. When the warlock is standing face to face with him he trails his claws up Derek’s arms like sharp spiders.

“Are you ready to remember,” the questions is sinister, and Derek doesn’t have time to answer before Drachen’s clawed hand reaches right through the center of his chest, latching onto his heart and _squeezing_.

   


 

            The memories come in flashes. Fire. A kiss. A bayonet slicing through Derek’s abdomen, another slitting his throat. An arrow through his heart. A thirst so unbearable his throat starts to eat itself.

            Every lifetime passes by him, floods through his entire body. It’s sharp like shrapnel in his lungs and he can’t get anything to slow down. Stiles’ face pushes through each memory, or most memories. He isn’t sure. He feels like he’s being force-fed, filled so much that he can’t keep everything down. Some memories get spit back out while others wiggle down his throat, anyway. It’s like being possessed. He plants his feet firmly to whatever earth he’s standing on, and lets it happen.

            The onslaught lasts an immeasurable amount of time, his body falling apart and getting pieced back together again until, miraculously, everything goes silent. This memory, Derek assumes, is the last one. The first one. The only one.

            The room is full of warm bread and pastries. His mother and father are there. He’s never seen them before, but he knows it’s them. Fire, again. Always a fire. Stiles is holding a basket of bread. Younger than Derek remembers him. Maybe eighteen. More fire. The edges of the frame burn with Derek inside of it. He’s kissing Stiles in the tiny bedroom upstairs, Derek’s hand buried in his soft dirty hair, the other wiping at the dirt on his face. He’s kissing Stiles in the woods, under a willow tree by a river, running his hands down his stomach, nipping at his neck. More burning. His family’s mangled bodies and an entire village in flames. Wooden huts and black smoke marring the green pastures. A woman, not quite human—Lilura—with white hair like a river trailing behind her, holds a little girl by her throat, other hand reaching through her until a small, still beating heart is pulled back out. His sister. Jane. He watches her twitch, eyes wide and mouth open, so, so helpless, before Lilura throws her body on the heap along with his parents and brothers.

            Stiles is there, magic pouring out of his hands, an ancient language soaking the thick air like blood on top of more blood. Lilura begins to disintegrate, flecks of skin, like ash, floating through the sky.

 

 

            Stiles is screaming somewhere behind him, screaming so loud that he can feel the blood rising in his own throat when he realizes that he’s on fire, knees sinking into the scorched earth. He feels it like it’s happening all over again, which, he thinks, it might be. Everything smells like death, and he feels the fire eating him alive, feels Stiles trying to put it out with his bare hands. When he is able to look up, he sees the irreparable burns on Stiles’ hands, sees him frantically swatting at his back, looking for a way to smother the hungry orange flames.

            It goes on forever. This memory stretches on and on, and he feels every second of his dying.

            When it finally stops, the view tips over on its side as Derek falls to the floor; last breaths of life leaving him. Stiles is unconscious beside him when a set of legs that Derek’s never seen before walk in front of him.

            “You killed my love. Now I kill yours.”

 _Remember this_ , Derek tells himself. _Remember his face. Look at his face._ His vision is blurring, and he knows he’s dying in that tub, somewhere lightyears away; he doesn’t have much time left before they pull him out and he loses this chance forever.

            “You will know pain. You and him. You will know what it is like to watch the one you love die over and over. You will know that pain,” the voice, human, says to him. Derek’s burned body twitches and convulses with what’s left of the life in it. He cranes his neck, ignoring the searing pain in his tendons, and he sees him. Sees his face. His real face. No yellow teeth, no gray skin or swirling magic. A plain man stands in front of them. Old and wrinkled. Thin lips permanently curled to reveal a set of white teeth. His hair is white in a ring around a bald spot on the top of his head. His eyes are so dark they’re almost black; lifeless pools boring into him.

            “I see you,” Derek says, voice raspy and horrifying, but audible, “I see you,” he says again, and then everything goes black.

            He’s woken up by a pair of rough hands pressing at his chest, a frantic mouth breathing life back into him. An ocean pours out of his throat, and he feels his body lighten with each spurt of water that leaves him.

            There’ a voice yelling _Derek, Derek, Derek,_ and even in this state, he knows its Stiles’, can tell that voice anywhere, now.

            “Let him breathe, Stiles, let him wake up. Hold on,” Deaton is saying, and the pair of hands that are pawing at his face slow down and still. Derek coughs and splutters and gurgles up the rest of the water from his lungs, throat and chest burning. It takes every ounce of strength for him to open is eyes, and when he does, its Stiles that he sees. Those eyes pushing through the pain and the haze, pushing through the blade of all those memories, reaching right into Derek’s core and pulling him back into his body for good.

            “I saw him,” Derek says as three wool blankets are thrown over him. He’s shivering violently. He registers someone pulling off his wet shirt, slipping his arms out of it before moving the blankets off of his shoulders momentarily.

            “Sh, you’ll tell us all about it in a few hours. You need to recover. Stiles, there’s a bed in the storage room. Take him there. We’ll come back at 4,”  Deaton says, sounding a little shaken.

            “Derek, we’re gonna fix this. We’re gonna save you,” Scott says, resting his hands on Derek’s shaking shoulders, those brown eyes melting him for a quick second before they’re all gone.

 

 

            It takes an hour of Stiles wrapped around him, long limbs entwined underneath the thick blankets, before Derek feels like he isn’t dying anymore. The cot in the storage room barely fits their bodies, ancient springs creaking with every breath they take. He’s stopped shivering, body finally calm enough to look at Stiles.

            “How do you live with it. How have you lived with it,” Derek croaks, rousing Stiles from his light sleep.

            “Hey,” he whispers, reaching up to cup Derek’s clammy face. “You wanna know how I live with it? Because I get this,” Stiles swipes a thumb over Derek’s mouth, “Because, after everything he put you through, I don’t get to give up. I don’t get to walk away.”

            “It’s so much, Stiles, it hurts so much. Not just you, but, but my family. My families. He punishes them, too.”

            “He will never hurt them again. This is the last time he wins. Hey,” he tilts Derek’s chin up, making him look him in the eye. “Never again,” he says.

            Derek kisses him. A soft, drawn out drag of their lips that’s meant to stay gentle, but the second they touch, it’s like they’ve never done it before. The kiss turns desperate in a matter of seconds, Derek’s body coming back to life the second Stiles opens his mouth to let him in.

            “Fuck,” Stiles mutters as Derek sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, running his tongue over it, “can’t get enough of you.”

            Derek just moans, pushing Stiles over so that he’s on top of him, abandoning Stiles’ bottom lip in favor of kissing and biting at his neck.

            “Your throat,” he breathes, “drives me fucking _insane,”_ he says, then bites down, losing it when Stiles tenses underneath him, his hand holding Derek’s head exactly where it is; the litany of curses coming out of his mouth fucking beautiful.

            Once Stiles is practically sobbing from the bruise Derek is leaving, he slides down, mouth and tongue leaving a wet stripe down his chest until he latches onto a nipple, pulling it into his mouth and biting ever so lightly. It makes Stiles arch up almost completely off the bed, hands pressing at Derek’s head again, guiding him to the other nipple, which he latches onto.

            He sucks on the tender flesh of Stiles’ nipples until they’re both so oversensitive that Stiles shivers when he breathes over them.

            “My turn,” Derek says, voice wrecked from drowning and kissing and everything in between. He’s about to mouth Stiles through his jeans when Stiles jerks up, pulling Derek’s mouth away from him.

            “No, Derek, not after what you’ve been through. It can wait, okay? Just—god, just keep kissing me.”

            So Derek does.

            “Tell us everything you can about the man you saw,” Deaton demands before he’s even finished walking up to Derek. They’d been waiting in the operating room for a few minutes, the sun heavy lidded in the sky by the time everyone reconvened.

            “Allison’s a really amazing artist,” Scott explains, gesturing towards her. She’s got a sketchpad resting on her knees, a pencil waiting in her hands. “She’s gonna sketch the person that you describe. She’s—she’s really good. She’s gonna do this professionally,” Scott beams, reaching out to grab her hand where she’s holding it out towards him, smiling so that her dimples are deep trenches on both sides of her mouth.

            Deaton is writing something down in a black marble notebook. He looks up and raises both eyebrows expectantly, silently asking for Derek to start speaking.

            “He, uh. He had gray hair. It was thinning, with a huge bald spot on top. Square face. Strong jaw,” Derek’s squeezing his eyes shut, sifting through the onslaught of memories and trying to conjure the man again. Stiles is rubbing his thumb over the palm of Derek’s hand. “His eyes were cold and dark. A really deep brown. Thin lips. Crooked mouth, a little. Lopsided on the right side, like he’d had a stroke at some point. Heavy brows, and a long, smooth nose. Crooked a little, too. Bending a little to the r—“

            Allison gasps, then covers her mouth to muffle a scream. She’s stopped drawing, eyes combing over what she’s just sketched in abject horror.

            “Allison, what is it,” Deaton is leaning over her, examining the picture. Stiles lets go of Derek’s hand to see what is happening, and Derek watches him as his face turns white as stone.

            “Oh, my god,” Scott breathes, running a hand through his hair and dropping to the ground so that he’s eye-level with Allison.

            “What,” Derek’s panicking now. He feels the bricks weighing heavy on his chest while he waits for one of them to answer him.

            Allison looks up, first, tears streaming down her face.

            “The man you saw, the—the one who did this. He’s my grandfather.”


End file.
